Outshone
by Enelya
Summary: What is the true nature of leadership? Orodreth reflects on his life, his family, and the man named Túrin during the final battle of Nargothrond. Written for 50lyrics.


**Title:** Outshone 

**Prompt:** 035. _another orphaned field, another broken shield; another voice that whispers: escape, escape, escape_

**Summary:** What is the true nature of leadership? Orodreth reflects on his life, his family, and the man named Túrin during the final battle of Nargothrond.

**AN:** Tolkien owns everything. Meet Orodreth, second son of Finarfin, who is sandwiched, along with his brothers Angrod and Aegnor, between Finrod the amazingly nice and all-round good guy and Artanis (aka Galadriel) the child prodigy. There's not much in canon about the middle children of Finarfin: Angrod and Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, while Orodreth held the tower of Minas Tirith (not the Gondor version) on the island of Tol Sirion for Finrod, but fled to Nargothrond when Sauron besieged it. He became King of Nargothrond when Finrod left with Beren on the quest for the Silmaril, but Celegorm and Curufin held all the power. They were eventually driven out, but Orodreth would not let them be killed. Túrin rose high in Orodreth's favour soon after he came to Nargothrond, and eventually he ruled the city in everything but name. Orodreth died fighting on the plain of Tumhalad.

Artanis' (Galadriel's) desire to rule her own realm was mentioned even before the Noldor left Tirion, so her brothers probably knew about her ambitions. Gwindor is not included in Noldor royalty, but he is described as 'a very valiant prince' and it's possible that he was descended from one of Finwë's daughters, in the same way as Voronwë.

Túrin gets names in the same way that other people get colds – he had no less than _five_ while in Nargothrond. He introduced himself as Agarwaen son of Úmarth, which is Bloodstained son of Ill-fate. The Elves called him Adanedhel (Elf-Man) because _'his speech and bearing were that of the ancient kingdom of Doriath, and even among the Elves he might be taken for one from the great houses of the Noldor'_. Finduilas called him Thurin (Secret), and when they eventually found out his true name, he asked them not to speak it because Morgoth would find him. (It didn't work.) Mormegil (Blacksword) was the name that reached Doriath and Angband because of Túrin's sword Anglachel.

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My sword is heavy in my hand, and sweat stings my eyes, yet the battle is not over. The westering sun sets the whole sky aflame as I raise my shield against an orcish axe, bracing myself for the jarring impact. I lift my sword: bright Noldor steel becomes black with blood as I unseam the monster from shoulder to hip. The beast falls, and I turn away before it reaches the ground. Some warriors aim only for heart or throat, others take pains to ensure every foe they meet is completely dead. I do neither: a stomach cut incapacitates, and it is a wound from which there is no recovering. I do not have the luxury of time to watch each of my enemies die. There are too many of them now.

Neither do I waste my strength in pointless charges, weighed down as I am in full body armour. Instead, I stand my ground and let them come to me. It is a nerve-wracking position, to be sure, but I learnt well from the disaster of Minas Tirith. A foe that will not run inspires caution, but a retreating enemy is no threat to his attackers.

If I have little skill in fighting my own battles, I am always eager to fight for others. I followed my brothers and my uncle because of loyalty, and yet it was more – Finrod was the eldest, but he was also our leader, and I thought I would be lost without him. His memory has sustained me after he left to play his part in the seemingly-hopeless quest for the Silmaril, but sometimes I envy Angrod and Aegnor for dying before him. They never had to face a world in which they had to be their own master for the first time in their lives. If Finrod had a weakness, it was for seeing us as companions and fellow captains rather than soldiers to be commanded. He always imagined that we had greater wisdom and capability than we ever possessed. My two younger brothers died before he could assign them any command, and I hope that he learnt from Minas Tirith that I had no capacity for leadership. When I led the remnants of my soldiers into Nargothrond, he looked at me with such anguish that I could not help feeling guilt and shame for failing him, although the standards he set were impossibly high.

After his death, I was afraid that I would be forced again into a position of command. In that regard, I was almost grateful that my erstwhile cousins seized power, yet Nargothrond was not theirs to rule, and Finrod's people rallied to me. I agreed that we should not be ruled by any Fëanorian, but I knew that I was not equipped for kingship either. I toyed with the idea of calling Artanis to Nargothrond and making her Queen – had she not always wanted to rule her own realm? – or even Gwindor, although he was always too impetuous for my taste. But when the time came, the people called me King, because I was Finrod's brother, and would not hear of any other. They did not understand that greatness is not allotted to all in equal measure, and that I had little. They wanted me to be an effigy of their beloved King, but I was alike to him as a candle is to the sun. I ruled, but reluctantly, and we became a quieter people, our glory fading into the days of old.

Finduilas took to royalty better than I. She was always of a romantic mind, and as a child she would sigh dreamily at tales of love and valour. I did not have the heart to disrupt her fantasies, nor did I see the need to do so. The Nargothrondrim loved her: she was their princess, golden-haired and gentle-hearted, and their mundane world was made glorious by her dreams. She loved Gwindor in a way that would make the minstrels proud, and bravely bid him farewell when he departed for war against my better judgement. When news reached us of the disastrous Nirnaeth Arnoediad, she was heartbroken, but she persisted in her rose-tinted view of the world.

Gwindor was also of a romantic mind, although to less of a degree than my daughter. He believed in honour, and bravery, and the glory of war, although the battles soon taught him otherwise. What misery and wretchedness he must have felt as a thrall I cannot begin to fathom, but the torment changed him forever. He still loved my daughter, but did not believe himself worthy of her – indeed, he thought the very sight of him would shatter her illusions. But Finduilas recognised him, and dreamed that the power of love would bring him healing and a happy ending for them both. For her sake, Gwindor spoke still of victories and honour, but I saw that he did not believe the words himself. His hope was dead in his eyes.

Perhaps Finduilas' love might have healed him or brought an end to his sorrow in time, but her heart was turned elsewhere. She loved Túrin as though their lives were the subject of a romantic ballad, such as the Lay of Leithian. But Túrin was not Beren, and my daughter was no Lúthien. In this her heart was pulled in two ways, and she would follow neither for fear of making the wrong choice. Thus her dreams turned to dust, and she perceived at last the world as it truly was, full of darkness and doubt, and her heart was filled with sorrow.

I did little to curb Túrin's power in Nargothrond, recognising in him a power of command greater than my own. Would that I had perceived the fate hanging like a shadow over him! The bridge he built was at odds with our manner of fighting, with stealth and poisoned arrows, but I did not oppose him. Like the people, I saw it as a return to the glory of Finrod's day, to open and honourable warfare. But it came too late for Gwindor, who knew that honour and glory were empty words, used only to describe a battle after it had been won. He always spoke against Túrin's suggestions, although he was alone in his opinions. Honour and respect he was not afraid to lose, since he had no more use for them. But we followed Finduilas' example, and believed in stories rather than our own eyes, although she herself had given up the habit. Gwindor and Finduilas, then, were the only ones to see clearly, save perhaps Túrin himself.

Túrin brooded on his past, yet would not speak of it to us, and we could not understand. For a long time, we did not even know his true name, although _Thurin _suited him well. _Bloodstained _son of _Ill-fate_ might have described him accurately, but it sounded unlovely to us, and we gave him new names as gifts to show that we truly welcomed him. He took _Mormegil _and hid behind it so that his doom would not find him, and _Adanedhel _showed the heart of our troubles: we forgot that he was a man. I talked with him as one leader talks to another, forgetting that this bold young man, commander of our forces, had seen less than forty summers, and had been only a child during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Finduilas loved him, and forgot that he would one day become weary of the world, and depart it. Gwindor saw the changes Túrin wrought in Nargothrond and the hearts of its people, and was grieved, and forgot that his influence would soon pass. All of us forgot that Túrin was no Elf but a Man, and lived as though the years had no hold on us. He was young to our eyes, but every day brought him closer to death, and time moved on ever faster.

All these thoughts weigh heavily on me as I turn to find myself alone in a sea of foes. They come thick and fast now, and we do not have the strength to repel them. I call out the order to retreat, but my voice is lost in the roar. Orcs march like a black river towards Nargothrond, and – oh, Varda – there is the stench of dragon. I cannot see Túrin, nor Gwindor. Perhaps they have already fallen back, and are defending their beleaguered home. I do not know how they can prevail, for Túrin's bridge is wide and solidly made. What of my people, trapped underground? What of my daughter?

My foes press closer, but I will fight them to my last breath. Perhaps it will buy my people some time. My shield is like stone, my blade almost slips between my trembling fingers, but I raise them one last time.

Would it have been different if I had forced myself to take command? I might have denied Túrin his way of battle. I might have gone on Beren's quest in Finrod's place, and Nargothrond might still have a king. I might have held Minas Tirith. I might have never left Valinor. All these paths I might have taken, instead of dying here because of Agarwaen son of Úmarth. The name by which we first knew him was more fitting than we first thought.

And yet, the fault is not Túrin's, who sets out to fight in the way he knows best. The fault lies not with Gwindor, who spoke the truth although it was terrible, nor with Finrod, who fulfilled his oath. The fault is mine, but it is those I love most that will suffer for it. If by my death I can ease their pain, I will. That is the true meaning of leadership.

I think I finally understand.


End file.
